


wheels of fate

by timelordswillwasteyou



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Disabled Character, First Kiss, M/M, Post-Canon, Sarumi Fest 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 06:38:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19806760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timelordswillwasteyou/pseuds/timelordswillwasteyou
Summary: It had been Misaki, of all people, to insist on the deep blue wheelchair.(Or, selected moments of Saruhiko and Misaki's life together after Saruhiko is seriously injured.)Written for Sarumi Fest 2019, Day 8: Free day. Also ontumblr.





	wheels of fate

**Author's Note:**

> this is another idea I’ve had in my head forever, and wanted to save for something special (aka sarumi fest!). warning for non-graphic injury and (temporarily) disabled Saruhiko and for the worst title in recorded history. I'm not totally satisfied with how it turned out, but at least I made myself write something.... I hope people enjoy. Happy sarumi fest :)

It had been Misaki, of all people, to insist on the deep blue wheelchair.

Saruhiko hadn’t cared, had maybe even been leaning toward red (call him a masochist, but he had wanted it to hurt a little, a constant reminder of how he’d almost lost everything – and also, maybe, he associated red with good memories and _life_ and – )

Misaki, though, had insisted, and so here he was, freshly discharged from the hospital and blinking in the too-bright sunlight. It’s Thursday morning, and Misaki should be working at his part-time job at the bookstore near Homra (the irony of which isn’t lost on either of them), but instead he’s here, proudly wheeling Saruhiko out the glass front doors of the building where he’s spent the better part of a month, and Saruhiko can feel his smile even facing the opposite direction.

It’s contagious, and he allows himself a small grin despite the residual aches in his body. They are moving back in together, after all.

~

The day of the accident had been excruciating, both emotionally and physically.

Saruhiko is reluctant to even call it an accident, since his actions had been backed by deep and unhesitating purpose. When he threw himself between Misaki and what had turned out to be three bullets coming his way he was driven by the need to repent, to prove himself worthy of Misaki’s time and love, but mostly by desperation to protect.

The bullets, shot from the weapon concealed from their combined clans by a violent and powerful post-Slate Strain until it was too late, would have hit Misaki somewhere around his stomach and lower chest. It would likely have been fatal. In the moment, Saruhiko had calculated this, made the assessment that three bullets to his lower back (due to their height difference) would be far better than three to Misaki’s midsection, and this cold logic had almost been enough to distract from the near-paralyzing fear he’d felt when he recognized what had been about to occur.

They had been hanging out more since the destruction of the Slate, talking and gaming and rebuilding, even opened a joint savings account they’ve both been depositing into whenever they can, even talked about getting a place together. The warmth that flooded him when he was around Misaki had never faltered, just changed shape over the years, through their friendship and separation and reconciliation, so Saruhiko is familiar enough with what it means when his chest tightens up and his fingers tremble at the mere thought of Misaki’s smile, to say nothing of its physical presence. Their relationship is different this time around, and so the warmth has shifted a little bit again, but mostly it’s intensified, spread through his entire being until sometimes when Misaki’s around he quite literally cannot see or feel anything other than him.

He has lived with that feeling for the better part of his life; he doesn’t know what he’d do without it. That was the thought racing through his mind as he shielded Misaki’s body with his own, his momentum throwing them both to the ground where he’d cupped the back of Misaki’s head in one hand to cushion it. Just as he calculated, two bullets hit his lower back as he fell, one on each side of his spine and the other in his left thigh.

He doesn’t remember much after that – he’d confirmed Misaki’s safety, the relief from his assessment temporarily cushioning the pain of his condition, and then mostly what he remembers is Misaki’s panicked cries and the pain in his back. (He later learned he’d also broken the fingers of one hand from the impact of Misaki’s head, but that couldn’t have mattered to him less – Misaki was safe, Misaki was alive, Misaki was still warm and bright and red.)

As he’d laid on the sun-heated asphalt in a pain-induced daze, his view of the sun blocked every so often by the desperate bustle around him and by Misaki’s figure and Misaki’s fingers wrapped tight around one of his hands, he slowly started to accept another realization: he had been shot once in the leg, but couldn’t feel any pain radiating from that wound.

He figures the others figured it out at some point, when they tried to lift him and his legs proved to be no help at all, but some time later (minutes or hours or weeks, Saruhiko hadn’t known how much time passed) when they arrived at the hospital (Misaki always at his side, that he does remember), the prognosis had become clear: at least temporary paralysis from the waist down, with possibility of recovery through an ambitious new physical therapy program.

With possibility of permanency, in other words.

Saruhiko had stared at the doctor after he was told this, not feeling one way or another about it, still nearly numb with relief at Misaki’s safety even days after the injury. Misaki, though, had broken down, sobs wracking his exhausted body as he collapsed over Saruhiko’s chest on his hospital bed. For the first time, he had thought beyond his in-the-moment justifications of his actions to how Misaki must feel: his best friend paralyzed from saving him, and he must be blaming himself.

Saruhiko had wrapped his arms around Misaki’s heaving body, then, wrapped trembling fingers around his jaw to force eye contact, and told him, “ _Don't_ ,” with all the feeling he could muster, “blame yourself.” Misaki had teared up even more, Saruhiko’s fingers trying to catch his tears as they fell, and they had laid like that for hours or eons, processing and reflecting and bathing in each other.

Saruhiko thinks later that that’s the longest they’ve ever continuously touched each other, and again finds it difficult to regret what he had done.

~

Misaki stayed with him at the hospital for every moment of the first two weeks he’s there. He has to go back to work after that, but he doesn’t stop visiting, comes by every afternoon he can and always brings a co-op game for them to try or a new dish he’s testing out (“since you must be sick of hospital food, Saruhiko”). They still touch a lot, mostly initiated by Misaki, as if he needs to reach out and touch to confirm Saruhiko is really there every few seconds or else he might disappear.

Saruhiko knows how he feels, wants to do the same but is prevented from following through by the ever-present insecurity in the back of his mind telling him his touch isn’t wanted. This feeling is being slowly quieted, however, the more Misaki shows up, the more he stays, the more they touch, the more he insists they move in together when Saruhiko is released, the more Saruhiko catches him staring out the wide hospital window at the city far below with something quiet and melancholy and regretful and fond and determined in his eyes.

~

Misaki doesn’t stop visiting him after he’s released from the hospital. They do move back in together, find a place midway between their workplaces, a two-bedroom with reasonable rent and all the utilities except for Internet included. There’s no washer or dryer in the unit but neither of them particularly care, too wrapped up in excitement and each other to give a damn about walking a couple blocks to the coin-operated laundromat.

It’s amazing, if Saruhiko’s honest (which he is trying to be, at least to Misaki – he deserves that much, after all he’s put him through), but it doesn’t end there. Misaki comes to Scepter 4 at least a couple times a week now, bringing him lunch or sodas to share or sometimes just news about his day – some customer talked back to him and he gave them the what-for, and boisterous stories like that. Saruhiko grows to depend on those visits. They give him strength to get through the day, help him do his job without snapping at everyone who stares at his wheelchair, make him fall so much fucking harder for Misaki than he even thought was possible.

Half their clan members think they’ve started dating. The other half thinks they have been for years. Saruhiko finds himself wishing they were right every time he sees Misaki smile.

~

He had been baffled, at first, why Munakata would possibly want a paralyzed clan member on his special forces squad.

He’d assumed, when he’d recovered enough from the pain and drugs to assume anything, that he would be slowly phased out of Scepter 4 and encouraged to find more appropriate work either outside the special police or elsewhere altogether. When he’d brought it up to Munakata, however, during one of his several visits to the hospital, the Captain had looked as close to surprised as Saruhiko had ever seen him look before calmly explaining that Saruhiko would be expected to return to his regular duties, with field time obviously reduced as appropriate, assuming he desired such a thing. He did, of course, just hadn’t wanted to ask for it and especially hadn’t wanted to be a burden, but Munakata says it like it’s obvious, like it’s logical, and so Saruhiko finds himself with another reason to make his recovery as quick as possible.

(When he’d revealed this insecurity to Misaki – well, more like his friend had forced it out of him, but semantics – Misaki had also looked surprised, but recovered quickly to spout his usual, “But you’re amazing, Saruhiko!” He’d been so sincere, eyes so bright, that Saruhiko had almost believed him, and either way he’d been too busy trying to keep the color off his cheeks to respond.)

His second day back (after a somewhat miserable first day of accepting condolences, glaring at stares, and answering questions), there’s an attack on the Scepter 4 mainframe by an unknown foreign source. Munakata requests he take command of a small team to secure the mainframe and track and neutralize the breach, and so Saruhiko is immediately able to put his skills to use again. He feels more validated at work after that, as if he’s still actually useful. If he felt like admitting it (which he doesn’t), he might even be thankful his mental state is improving now thanks to the people around him, because dealing with half-body paralysis even a year ago might have done him in.

(He thinks of Misaki’s smile again, and immediately feels better. That dumb face must be better than any pain killer his doctor could give him for it to make him feel this way, this much.)

~

Misaki has been acting a little…strange, since they moved back in together.

Sometimes he helps with Saruhiko’s morning routine, which has become somewhat longer since the injury. Saruhiko doesn’t really need help but never says this out loud because Misaki helping mostly involves a lot of touching – from supporting him as he rolls out of bed and into his wheelchair, to wrestling with sweaters and pants as he helps dress him. Every time they touch or make eye contact Misaki will freeze, stare, turn red with embarrassment (or could it be…?). He never runs, though, like Saruhiko probably would if his legs still obeyed him, just lets the moment swallow them both.

He doesn’t know what it means but seeing Misaki make faces like that just for him…it definitely isn’t bad. He thinks he could get used to it, even addicted, if Misaki doesn’t stop.

~

He had never realized how naturally wheelchair-friendly the Homra bar was until…yeah.

He visits Misaki there now, sometimes, when he has a day off and feels well enough to roll the few blocks to his old clan headquarters. The front door is right at street level, and the strip of wood on the floor supporting the base of the door is low enough he barely even feels the bump as he rolls over it. (Scepter 4, between its size and the sheer numberof stairs connecting its different divisions, was decidedly not wheelchair friendly, something he’d obviously taken for granted before.) Homra, by contrast, is almost nice, almost makes him feel like nothing is different about him since he can get around the bar nearly as easily as if he could walk.

The atmosphere itself, too, is less uncomfortable than he thinks it should be, given everything he put everyone there through. Kusanagi, he thinks, probably understands why he did what he did, probably even knows of his…feelings for Misaki. It had really been Anna he’d been worried about – though she probably understands those things too, he thought she would have a far more difficult time forgiving him for how much he hurt Misaki.

On his fifth or so visit to the bar – enough visits in he’s started to lose count of the number – Misaki is running a little late, kept for an hour or so of overtime at the bookstore, and Anna is the only one there, sitting on the couch immortalized in Saruhiko’s memory as the one that supported Suoh Mikoto’s weight as he napped. He had been about to turn around and wait outside, but Anna had gestured to the empty spot across the table from the couch, and Saruhiko had reluctantly rolled over.

Their conversation had been short but poignant: Anna asking how he was feeling, if anything still hurt, and giving him knowing looks when he lied and said everything was healed even though he knew she hadn’t just been referring to his recent injury. Her pointed, unsettling gaze had forced a quiet apology out of him – an apology for hurting Misaki, mostly, but also for waiting so long to apologize in the first place. She had stared at him some more, then reached out for his hand to unclench it from the arm of his wheelchair and take it in both of hers. “It’s alright,” she’d told him. “Saruhiko hurt Misaki, but Saruhiko was hurting because of Misaki, too.” She was right, but he’d never considered he wasn’t the only one in the wrong, and to hear it laid out so simply by a child had been a little jarring. She had added something about how they were rebuilding their relationship now and so wasn’t it all worth it in the end just as Misaki had stumbled in, breathless and sweaty from having run from work, but snippets from their discussion echoed in Saruhiko’s brain for days afterward.

Visiting Homra, in short, becomes a comfortable part of his routine – if you subtract Kusanagi’s knowing gazes at the two of them and the fact that even the more idiotic members clearly know more than they should about their relationship.

~

Misaki has been trying to teach him skateboarding tricks. It’s cute to see him try to figure out how to adapt the tricks he knows to a wheelchair. Misaki’s thinking face has always been cute, and seeing that combined with the sweat-slicked hair sticking to that face tends to do things to Saruhiko’s chest.

Misaki mostly fails, most of the tricks lost in translation (or in technology?) between his board and Saruhiko’s chair, but Saruhiko leaves the skatepark after their second or third attempt knowing how to do a wheelie on both his back and front wheels (“we’ll try the side ones next time, Saruhiko!”), and even if he hadn’t, Misaki’s blinding smile was worth the sweat and embarrassment.

~

They stumble back in from the skatepark grinning, Misaki wheeling him into their first-floor apartment and kicking the door closed behind them. Saruhiko can’t keep the smile off his face, a rare thing for him (though more and more common these days), and it’s still plastered to his face stubbornly when Misaki goes to help lift him off the chair and into a kitchen stool, arms under Saruhiko’s armpits to support him and Saruhiko’s arms around his waist. Except when he’s sitting there on the stool, arms still wrapped around Misaki and legs parted to accommodate him, Misaki doesn’t move like usual, doesn’t look away, doesn’t stop smiling, just lets his lips slip into something softer and impossibly fond and even before he whispers his name Saruhiko already can’t breathe. His hands tighten reflexively on Misaki’s hips, grasping for dear life and breath coming in warm pants as Misaki’s eyes drop to watch his mouth for a moment before leaning in.

Their eyes meet, Misaki closer than he’s maybe ever been, and there’s a question there, one that’s almost impossible for Saruhiko to process given what he knows about himself, and it’s there all the same, and his answer is clear. He says Misaki’s name, too, almost against the smaller man’s mouth, and leans down the close all but an inch of the remaining distance between them.

Misaki, as Misaki does, takes care of the rest, and from there Saruhiko’s heart outpaces any of Misaki’s skateboarding tricks.

His lips are warm and a little salty-damp from sweat, and they taste like history and home in Saruhiko’s mouth, which parts to let Misaki’s questing tongue inside. Misaki wouldn’t be Misaki if that didn’t embarrass him, though, and he pulls back a moment later, panting and flushed and if Saruhiko wasn’t equal parts turned on and fucking in love before then he is now. Misaki’s taken care of everything else; he isn’t going to let him beat him to a confession this time.

“Misaki,” he starts, voice much shakier and gruff than he’d like, and then realizes he has no idea what to say, how to convey how much he’s feeling. Misaki’s no help at all, his fingers tracing Saruhiko’s jawline and making their way to his lips, all the time wearing an impossibly loving smile that Saruhiko really doesn’t know what to do with.

He’s willing to try, though – for Misaki, it’s been proven by now, he would do anything. “Misaki – “ tell him, _tell him_ – “Misaki, I…I want – this, want you…I’ve always – ”

Misaki kisses him again before he can finish, and Saruhiko groans into his mouth, grasping at Misaki’s shoulders and hair, weaving fingers into the red locks and holding on as he kisses him like he means it because he’s never meant anything more. It’s his tongue that seeks out Misaki’s lips this time, and Misaki accommodates him, gasping out half-finished confessions between partings of their mouths, and they pour love into each other like that for long seconds, minutes, eons.

By the time they part Saruhiko feels like he might explode – and, god, more parts of him than one agree; he’s so hard he could come just from _thinking_ – and it gets even worse when he sees everything he’s feeling reflected back at him from Misaki’s tender gaze. Misaki’s fingers are around his neck, tracing the lines of it down to his chest, and while Saruhiko’s distracted with that Misaki manages a quiet but fervent, “I‘m in love with you, Saruhiko.”

Saruhiko’s fingers clench at Misaki’s hips again, and he drops his head to rest against Misaki’s as they stare at each other. He has never felt so much. Knowing it is shared is almost enough to completely fucking break him. He had never dared to think, never expected, never hoped, and yet here Misaki is, telling him he’s been loved since the beginning, and Saruhiko’s at a total loss. What do you say to someone who’s stood by you, saved you more times than they know, made and remade you and made you fall in love everyday for the better part of your life?

Saruhiko doesn’t know. Maybe no one does. His answer lies in action, and so he breathes in Misaki’s air, holds him so close their shared body heat has nowhere to escape, and presses their mouths together again softly.

When they part again, Saruhiko finds the breath to say, “Me, too,” and then “Misaki,” and then they’re lost in the press of lips and tongue again and there’s no breath left for anything else. 

He hadn’t known this much feeling was possible for one person. He never wants it to stop.

(Some time later, Misaki, hands questing down toward his hips, pulls back from their kiss just far enough to ask, “So, when they say ‘paralyzed from the waist down,’ does that mean…?” His blush does nothing to cover his pointed glance down Saruhiko’s body, and Saruhiko gasps as the implication registers, yanking Misaki’s mouth back to his before suggesting he find out for himself.)

(The next time Misaki visits him at Scepter 4, he surprises him with a pointed but soft kiss on the lips before handing over his bento. Saruhiko can’t even be annoyed at the clapping and congratulations that follows him around the rest of the day.

If he believed in useless things like fate, he would maybe think he and Misaki were meant to be.)

**Author's Note:**

> thank you, thank you, thank you for reading. comments/kudos as always are so appreciated.


End file.
